


Taking a Breather

by fractalsinthesky



Category: Mutant Year Zero (Video Game)
Genre: But made slightly more bearable by people who know you and care about you, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Life is Hard and Depressing, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 07:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsinthesky/pseuds/fractalsinthesky
Summary: Returning from a routine scrap run, Dux gets injured and the two are forced to take shelter from foul weather. Mostly practice with their banter and showing that they understand and care about each other beneath the superficial. Mostly platonic, but tender if you squint.





	Taking a Breather

The air was damp and chill when the storm cleared, soured with the scent of rotting vegetation and the wet, black loam of the Zone and, beneath it, the sick pungence of meat gone long past bad. Ghoul-stink, but old. Maybe two, three days out. He was getting a slight tang of blood, but that could be from a nearby wildlife kill, or even the lingering effects of the crowbar to the face he’d taken that morning. Bormin sniffed, scowling at the acrid curls of cigarette smoke threading from his side.

“Do you really have to do that now?” he asked, layering enough weary irritation into it so Dux would understand just exactly how fucking stupid he was being. The detached look he got in return, along with the soft crackle and thin red glow as he took a long, deliberate drag in response, was more than enough to tell him that Dux was fully aware of how asinine he was being, and that Bormin was free to think whatever he wanted about it. As usual. He shook his head, looking off through the trees, bracing himself for the predictably excessive verbal follow-up.

“Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to do?” It came alongside a warm, gray plume as he exhaled with a sigh, tilting his head back up to the still-dripping foliage beyond the faded green tarp sheltering their heads. “You got any dice? Cards? Mags? Bed-time stories? You wanna talk about that shitshow this morning, or the next one comin’ down the pipe? Or, providing the next one doesn’t kill us, the one after that? I’m open to suggestions. How would you prefer we while away the hours ’til we make it back to the Ark, Bormin?”

He watched the mist curl between the silver tree-trunks, swallowing the world outside their tarp. “Quietly.”

Dux sniggered, shifting against the pile of their gear and wincing, good hand flitting to the field-bandage over his right arm when Bormin turned to look. “Ah, shit.”

Bormin turned his gaze back to the wood. For all his griping about everything else under the sun, Dux got kinda touchy about showing actual pain, and he’d only be more annoying if he thought he had to put up an act. Still, it had been a bad break. If they didn’t get it treated properly within a day or two, it was probably gonna get infected. If it got infected, he’d probably lose it. 

There were plenty of good Stalkers in the field with prostheses, but most of them had been born like that, or, if they’d lost it later, they’d still lost it early. Most mutants that lost something as big as an arm or a leg as adults couldn’t adjust to the steep learning curve imposed by the Zone. And as much as he whined and moaned about the discomfort of Zone travel and the constant danger, Dux wasn’t the type to sit at home and twiddle his thumbs for long. 

“You okay?” he asked offhandedly.

“Oh yeah, never better.” He heard Dux take another long drag, could feel the heat of his unsteady exhale stirring the wiry hair at the back of his neck. “Just remembered we’re missing trivia night at Pripp’s. I love trivia night.”

“Yeah? Before or after it devolves into brawling?” Trivia night never seemed to involve much actual trivia. He heard the flurried clapping of birds being flushed further off into the wood, but when he listened for the steady tramping of boots and the guttural scrape of Ghoul voices bickering, there was only a soft susurration of wind in the trees and the gentle patter of water droplets falling. Still, he pulled his scattergun across his knees and kept a wary hand on the stock.

“Both.” He could hear the grin in his voice. “I don’t know why Little Eddie keeps showing up every week. Guy’s slow in every meaning of the word, but fuck me, is he fun to goad. You seen the way his nose twitches when he’s pissed? And how he gets all pink and blotchy? Hilarious.”

“Yeah, I bet he’s real heartsore that you couldn’t make it tonight,” Bormin smiled despite himself. 

“Mm, no doubt about it.” Something deflated in his tone. 

Bormin resisted the urge to look back, instead digging through the small pouch on his belt. He pulled out a couple shreds of sharproot and passed them back. “Here. Suck on these for a while. Helps with hunger, and it’ll keep me from havin’ to smell those shitsticks every time you open your beak to yap.”

Chewing sharproot also helped to alleviate the stress and tension headaches inherent in walking around with a painful injury for six hours, but there wasn’t much point in mentioning that.

“You say the sweetest things, man. Really gives me the warm and fuzzies.” He heard careful movement from the pack pile, a stifled grunt of pain, and Dux’s fingers brushed his as he took the sharproot. He pulled his empty hand back, rubbing at the tips of his fingers before wiping his palm on his pants.

“You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, thanks for the sweaty tubers. That a leather pouch you store ‘em in? Do you remember if that leather was originally ass skin or like, from the sole of something’s foot or something? Because I am getting a definite aftertaste of nasty.”

Bormin took a deep breath, held it, and released it through his nostrils. It steamed in the cold air. “Like I said. You’re welcome.”

Dux scoffed, and he could hear him settling back on the packs. “Okay. Thanks, old timer.”

He grunted. A gentle sigh rushed up through the trees, and silver rain began to fall again in earnest. His shoulders sagged. If this storm was anything like the last, they wouldn’t be able to see five feet in front of them once it got into full swing. With so many Ghoul patrols in this region of the Zone and Dux down to one functional arm, it wasn’t worth trying to travel until the weather had cleared up. 

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Looks like we won’t be moving out for a while.”

“Of course not, I mean, why would we? We’re only a day’s hard trek from the Elevator, with miles upon miles of Ghoul-infested woodlands between us and a sanctuary that’s low on food supplies and running on fumes. Perfect time to put my feet up and go dead to the world. Good practice.”

Bormin rolled his eyes, watching a chipmunk scale the closest tree, its tiny claws scrabbling over the wet bark. “It’s been a long day, and we’ve still got a ways to go. I’m gonna want to rest before we head out again, but you need some shut-eye before I can trust you to keep watch. So sleep, asshole.”

“Ooh, orders,” he mocked, and Bormin closed his beleaguered eyes for a moment. Didn’t stop him from talking, though. Nothing did. “You know I like it when you tell me what to do, good buddy. Puts my feathers on end just thinking about how disappointed you’ll be when I don’t do exactly as you demand. Is it good for you too, big guy?”

“Just. Go to sleep, Dux.”

“Alright, fine. Wake me when you miss my sparkling conversation.”

Not like him to drop it so quickly. He must really be in pain. He glanced back as Dux tugged his visor low over his eyes and shuffled down against the gear packs, left arm nocking behind his neck, and placing his injured right carefully across his chest.

“Sleep good, kid,” he said quietly. The corners of his bill curved up in a wry smile, but he didn’t respond, and then the only sound left for Bormin to listen to was the hushing rain over their shelter, the slight scurrying from distant wildlife, and the low, even breathing of two Stalkers far from home.

It was really coming down. Lucky they’d strung their tarp up over a rise between three close-standing trees, or they’d be sitting in a cold puddle by now. At least the deluge would wash away their scent, obfuscate their tracks, and send any nearby Ghoul patrols scurrying off in search of shelter. Honestly, if they were in better shape, it wouldn’t be a bad time to cover some ground. What was left of their food wouldn’t last another day, and they’d already been rationing pretty hard. They’d need to hunt on the way back, and keep an eye out for forage. Should be some mushrooms around, at least.

Dux’s breaths were shallow, even as they steadied and softened with sleep. He didn’t snore, but from time to time, he would let out a strained grunt from the back of his throat. His foot twitched now and again, tapping faintly against Bormin’s side, like an echo through the armor. 

Could just be the injury, but he tended to be fidgety in his sleep when he was cold. Bormin laid his gun down over the leaf litter by his side and shrugged off his coat. The thing had definitely seen better days, but it’d do the job just fine. He laid it carefully over his partner’s smaller frame, folding the arms up beneath his bill and backing off, watching for a moment to make sure he hadn’t woken him up. Dux muttered something unintelligible and shifted slightly, but his brow smoothed, and his breathing slowed.

Satisfied, Bormin resumed his position at the front of the shelter, watching the rain fall with patient eyes and trying to remember where the fruit-bearing bushes along the route to the Elevator grew.


End file.
